Skin care tips for modern vampires

Hello readers. I’m in a very languorous mood; it’s a wonder I’m pulling out the stops to make my skin more clear. Hannah Hunt just started playing on my Spotify. This song reminds me of summer 2013, when I ventured off to Trois-Rivières, Québec. Modern Vampires of the City had just been released and my best friend Eileen went to the VW concert in Detroit with a film photograph of me on a popsicle stick. Little did I know that it was the first of many concerts I would miss in favour of living in a French-speaking atmosphere.

Skip this next part if you can’t be arsed to read about skin care products (no offense taken).

  1. First, I just washed my face with Dr. Jart+ Dermaclear (which I won on a Facebook contest this past winter). When I'm not using the Dr. Jart, I use this wash from Amie (which is less than 3 euros at SAGA and suitable for vegans)! Both are soft and foamy. 
  2. Then I used a cotton pad to “tone” with Christian Lenart rose water (way cheaper than Mario Badescu; I found it at the Strasbourg-Saint Denis Monoprix when I was supposed to be picking up wine). Yes, it actually smells like roses. It also works as a démaquillant but Bioderma Créaline is still my number one choice.  
  3. Finally, I used a spot treatment for the first time in a long time. I found it at HEMA. Despite obnoxious packaging (“Let’s attack those nasty spots!”), it seems to work well on my "young & impure" skin. The gel cools so quickly. This fascinates me.

When I lived with my grandmother, I would often borrow a gel of hers in a silver tube with a purple cap. This pimple reduction routine reminds me of her (as does the smell of Beautiful by Estée Lauder). I always made sure not to steal too much of the gel. Now that I have my own blue and white tube, I can put as much on my face as I want; how bittersweet... I miss my grandma.

Later tonight I’ll moisturize with either my anti-rougeurs from Avène or a crème de nuit I have lying around, then dab on some Vichy slow âge under my eyes. I’d like to go back to Kiehl’s and Codage soon to get some more free échantillons of serums (or creams with SPF).... though I am trying to reduce my consumption of single-use packaging.

I saw a pomegranate face mask today and it reminded me of an older gentleman named Darryl who used to come into the wine store where I worked. I probably haven’t thought about Darryl since September 2017. We were in a mall of sorts. Darryl would always leave his walker propped outside by a decrepit candy machine then buy two cans of pomegranate Growers Cider from the back of our store. Darryl wore the kind of expression of that was always happy to see you. He also wore a baseball cap. I hope he still has both.

Many of my 2017 moments were dramatic bordering on cinematic… the aforementioned wine store began to flood while I was inside. I watched someone I thought I was dating make out with my friend in front of me at a bar. I convinced myself I was on the brink of death in Amsterdam before reading a Patrick Süskind novel. I moved in with people after speaking to them online for only eight minutes (and am consistently astounded by their generosity). I even went to Biarritz with someone I met through a Facebook argument (we were both offering support for the transgender community). Historically, more interesting things happen to me in the summer.

Nothing terribly comical or romantic has happened to me lately. I think the summer must officially arrive. Invite me into your home and, in true Vampire fashion, I'll make it worth your while. 

Okay fine, I think I need to exercise a greater spatial awareness of my immediate surroundings. Just over two weeks ago, I fell down a wooden spiral staircase in the dark. My back still hurts when I attempt to lift certain objects but I’m grateful nothing was broken. I laid on the stairs in despondent silence before commencing my crochety walk towards the elevator. The woman in the elevator was too French to look bemused whereas I was too Canadian to refrain from apologizing for having walked into the glass door. 

I could have died, but I didn’t.
After all, in the words of Yeats, “We only begin to live when we conceive life as tragedy.”